


In That Book (which is my memory)

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Season 2 spoilers, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 00:34:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1708400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wrote this after watching the season 2 finale and feeling slightly dead inside.<br/>More or less, I should have called this story: did anyone else notice the calligraphy porn that was Jack's invitation?<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	In That Book (which is my memory)

1.  
“In that book which is  
my memory,  
on the first page of the chapter  
that is the day when  
I first met you,  
Appear the words,  
‘Here begins a new life’.”

 

When the letter arrived Will was probably asleep. His dreams hadn’t permitted him to hear the sound of the postal truck rolling its way up to his house to reach him, but the dogs had an excited energy about them as he walked down the stairs which suggested it’d been a recent delivery.

It sat face up on his door mat, the soft finish of the heavy parchment envelope a stark contrast to the stubborn bristles showing a little too much wear.

_‘Hannibal.'_

The word broke past his lips before his brain had a chance to catch himself. The months that had passed had proven to be a difficult pursuit of Will attempting to shut down every conversation people had tried to have with him about his ex-psychiatrist. To have finally said the name out loud again brought the reality of the correspondence to light.

Bending down to reach the letter, Will didn’t feel as if he was rushing. It wasn’t eager that he felt, but it wasn’t quite trepidation either. As if this was yet another metaphor that Hannibal had given him and a right answer was simply to respond. In that mind, it made sense that the contents left him wordless.

What wasn’t surprising was that Hannibal’s penmanship was beautiful. Drafted on an ivory white sheet, imperfections of the surface speaking of quality over ease, the letters simply looped together with grace. Not a single weave of ink looked gratuitous, even the deepest flourish of a low hanging y couldn’t be described as a flounce, but instead a purposeful – but evidentially effortless – strike.

Will had never given much thought to calligraphy before now, his own untidy scrawl was disagreeable at best. Many of his note books had descended into illegibility long before even his mind departed from lucidity. But the letter had provoked him to consider it, there was a paradoxical harmony about the craft: an obvious adherence to orthodoxy, levelled with a signature creativity. A give and take that would normally betray premeditation but here looked more organic. Slipping his fingers under his thread bare shirt, he ghosted over the scar that had previously been Hannibal’s most pertinent missive to Will: yes, it would make sense that Hannibal’s cursive was equally calculated and animate.

He was ignoring what the words said.

The verse felt vulgar almost in its affection, overloading his already overwrought sensory perception, it was like taking in a breath of wet warm air when gasping for ventilation. Biologically it filled him, but it didn’t stop him for fearing he was drowning.

Will dug his fingers into the scar, this time with determination. He was trying to take the edge off, and stop the image of Hannibal’s hand cradling his neck from invading his mind. It was easier to think of his scar, to think of Abigail bleeding on that floor again, to think of Bella living to bury Jack.

_‘This doesn’t change anything’_

He had decided to hate Hannibal. More effectively, he’d decided that his intimate relationship with the man’s knife meant that Hannibal hated him. It was an easier place to be in.

_‘You wouldn’t have killed Abigail if you had really forgiven me’_

There was no return address, or suggestion as to how Will could intimate his reaction. Hollow words to an empty room would have to suffice.

_‘I don’t want you to’_

That feeling had slipped out of him with a good few pints of his blood and the last of Abigail’s stuttering breaths.

_‘I’m not interested in playing this game’_

Will wondered if it’d be as easy to lie to Hannibal if he was here to hear his words.


End file.
